


Your own heart's-blood

by janescott



Category: One Direction
Genre: Angst, Gen, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:49:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn loves Liam. Harry loves Zayn. But no one is really happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your own heart's-blood

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Nightingale and the Rose, which also inspired the story. Thanks to magenta for the beta.
> 
> I'm ... sorry. D:

The first time Harry sees Zayn, he trips over his own feet and bites his tongue.

At least, that's the way Louis tells it, his blue eyes bright with mirth and mischief. The truth is, Harry had tripped over Louis's untidy trainers by the door, and then bit his tongue after he'd opened the door.

Upon consultation with Niall and Louis, they agreed that the same thing could easily have happened to them. 

"Uh. Sorry. Um." Harry blinks, and then stares at the man standing in his doorway. Harry's feeling a bit dazed, like he's been hit in the head instead of just tripping and biting his tongue, because standing in front of him is the most beautiful man Harry has ever seen.

Discarding the raised eyebrow, Harry takes a moment to drink in impressions: inky-black hair; whisky coloured eyes, completely unfair cheekbones and a generous mouth.

"You all right there, mate? Did you hit your head?"

Harry laughs nervously and runs his hand through his hair. "I, no, sorry, I tripped on Louis's shoes and then I bit my tongue and - hi. Sorry. I'm Harry."

The man - possibly angel or demon, the jury is still out for Harry - holds out a piece of paper. "I saw your flier down at the coffeshop on the corner? You're looking for a flatmate? Oh - I'm - Zayn. Zayn Malik."

And that is how Zayn moves in with Harry, Louis and Niall, and takes over Harry's life.

Well, that's. An exaggeration of course, as Harry concedes to Louis late one night, when Niall's been called in to work and Louis is riding out the end of a migraine, demanding cuddles and Harry's backrubs in equal measure.

"But that's how it feels," he says softly, mindful of Louis's eyes slowly blinking at him in the dim room. "Like - all that's in my head is Zayn and I just. I don't know what to do with it, it's so big."

Louis murmurs something low, not quite words; more of a low hum, to show that he’s listening. It’s an oddly comforting noise.

Then Louis reaches out, his eyes crinkling up at the corners with kindness and sympathy and Harry curls into him, feeling slightly guilty.

"I'm supposed to be making you feel better, or sleep. Niall will kill me," he mutters into the curve of Louis's collarbones.

"I'm all right, Harry. I've had painkillers and plenty of sleep and you know, my boyfriend's a nurse. He'll take care of me when he gets home from his shift."

"Mmm."

Louis sighs and starts carding his fingers through Harry's hair, working through the tangles in the curls, until Harry's breathing starts evening out.

"I know it sucks, love. But you'll always have me and Niall. Not much compensation for true love, I know, but - "

Harry doesn't hear anything else, but he falls asleep with a smile anyway.

He manages. He goes to work at the bakery around the corner, and he navigates Louis and Niall's shifts at the hospital as best he can, and he learns to be around Zayn as much as he can, even though it squeezes something inside him.

Zayn slots into their lives like he's always been there. He takes the smallest room without complaint and fills it with books and comics and art supplies and music and colour. Harry's drawn to Zayn anyway; knows he would be; Zayn feels like the missing parts of Harry's own heart.

He's aware of Niall and Louis in the background. He knows that they're worried about him, about his capacity for giving away his whole heart. The last time that had happened - the last time Harry had handed his heart over to a boy to take care of ... well. He's better now. 

He is.

"Have you thought about .... maybe saying something? To Zayn?"

Harry looks up from the dough he's kneading. It's therapeutic and he loves it; zones out until it's just him and the dough and the promise of bread, hot and fresh.

He blinks at Niall, who's just in from the hospital, judging by the scrubs, and shakes his head.

The question feels like it's come out of nowhere, even though it really hasn't - it's in the air all the time, in Harry's head and his heart, and he knows - he needs to do something.

"I - I mean, yeah, of course I have. I just. I don't. What if."

Niall hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder and plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Yeah. But. Then you'd know for sure."

Niall is a nurse, and the most practical person Harry knows. Niall likes order, and for things to be in their proper place.

Sometimes, it puzzles Harry how on earth he and Louis got together because Louis is the exact opposite - loud, and messy and chaotic.

But. But they work, and they make love look easy.

It's enough, anyway, to give Harry hope.

Then - they all watch The X Factor and Harry's world crumbles.

It’s a flat tradition, watching the X Factor. Well, they’d watched it last year and Zayn says he thinks there’s someone from his hometown on it this year, and Harry should have been paying attention, should have tried harder to shore up his heart because - 

“Liam,” Zayn’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through Louis and Niall’s good-natured bickering about the last contestant.

He’s leaning forward, like he could tip right into the TV screen, and end up on the stage with - Liam?

“Do you know him, love?” Louis asks, easy as anything but his eyes cut to Harry who’s curled up in the flat’s only armchair. He’d been half-asleep before - before.

“Yeah, I - we grew up together.” Zayn pushes a hand through his hair and laughs softly as the show goes through a short bio of Liam, and Harry can’t look away from Zayn’s face, because he knows, he knows that look, too well.

He goes to say something but Zayn waves his hand without looking away from the screen, and then Liam sings and well. Harry has many talents, he knows - he can make a great loaf of bread, make a birthday cake at short notice, he can take care of Niall nearly as well as Louis when he’s homesick for his Da and for Ireland - but watching Zayn watching Liam, Harry knows one thing - for all his skills, and for all of his open, open heart - he cannot compete.

Zayn’s grinning at the TV and his whole face is lit up and Harry - he can’t. He just. He mumbles something about a headache and stumbles away, heading for his room and peace and quiet.

Louis, of course, follows, bringing in painkillers and a bottle of water, condensation slipping down the sides. Harry stares at it, at the drops slowly sliding down, and then blinks up at Louis, who puts the blister pack of pills and the water on Harry’s bedside table, before placing the flat of his hand against Harry’s forehead.

“I’m fine, I don’t really have a headache,” he says, leaning into Louis’s too-gentle touch anyway.

“I know,” Louis says softly. “Just making sure. Drink the water anyway, okay? D’you need me to stay with you?”

Harry sighs and works the sheet through his fingers, bunching it and straightening it out. He should say no; tell Louis to go back to his boyfriend; that he’s all right, but instead - “yes, please.”

As far as he knows, Harry doesn’t dream that night.

They all watch as Liam goes through the show; getting closer and closer to the end. Harry mostly watches Zayn; watches his expressions, the way his face lights up when Liam sings, and when he gets praise from the judges; the way he frowns when he gets criticism.

Harry stores them away, and he knows they’re not for him - likely they never will be for him - but he stores them away, anyway, hoarding them to himself.

Zayn - Zayn is like a man possessed. There’s no other word that Harry can think of. Zayn watches the X Factor shows obsessively, his phone clutched in his hand until it leaves imprints on his palms. They’re all worried about him but he just shakes his head, shrugging off them and their concerns.

“I’m fine,” he’ll say, his eyes glued to the TV, “I’m fine, I just. I need. I need to - I’m fine.”

They don’t believe them but there isn’t anything they can do, and Harry learns to bury his feelings in the shape of dough under his hands; in the creations of cakes and pastries and sweet, sweet fantasies made of sugar and flour and chocolate.

His heart is elsewhere, his heart dwells with a beautiful boy who only has eyes for the person on their screen twice a week and all Harry can do is bake, and bake, and hang on, and try not to worry his friends too much.

Liam is … Liam is nice. 

Zayn discovered that Liam hadn’t changed his cellphone number and in a moment of madness and bravery, had sent him a text, asking if - just if he has time - if he’d like to come around.

Liam - and Harry can only imagine what it must be like for him now; winner of the X Factor, so good-looking, so likable, so _nice_ \- and Harry thinks it must be like walking permanently on tectonic plates - like the world is never steady under your feet.

So, he can understand why Liam would want to see someone from his hometown; someone he grew up with; someone who _knows_ him outside of his persona on TV.

What none of them know - what Zayn kept close to his chest - is that he planned to tell Liam how he felt - how he feels. To lay his heart out and hope, hope, hope.

Liam - is nice; he’s nice and he’s kind and it’s so good to see Zayn but - he’s sorry, he’s so, so sorry, he just doesn’t feel that way about him. He hopes that they can be friends? It’s so good to see a friendly face, and I’m so sorry - and then Louis is leading Liam to the door while Niall and Harry instinctively head for Zayn, sitting on the couch, his hands gripping the cushions, his face so pale that Niall reaches for his wrist to take his pulse, worried that he’s going to pass out.

Harry’s heart is already in pieces because of Zayn, but this just makes it shatter all over again. He sits down carefully and starts rubbing Zayn’s back, long, slow strokes that he can eventually feel Zayn’s breathing slow down to match. He keeps it up as Louis comes back, his eyes tight and his mouth pinched. Harry looks up and watches Louis make a conscious effort to shift his expression.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he murmurs and if Harry wasn’t so worried about Zayn in this moment, he’d smile at Louis doing such a very British thing in a time of crisis.

They all pile into Harry’s room that night, with Zayn in the centre. He reaches for Harry, and Harry knows it doesn’t mean anything really; doesn’t mean what he wants it to mean, but he’s still closest to Zayn out of all of them, and despite the shattered mosaic pattern of his own heart, he goes, curls up beside him and starts playing with his hair, which Harry knows is the one thing guaranteed to put Zayn to sleep.

He sifts and shifts the ink-black strands with his fingers, studying the contrast between that and his own pale skin. Zayn smells like cologne and smoke, and salt and tea, and though Harry and Louis and Niall are there to comfort Zayn as his own heart finds it’s own broken-mosaic pattern, Harry finds comfort in the nearness of all his boys, too.

He tells himself - as Zayn curls into his side, pressing himself against Harry as though that will take away all of the pain he’s feeling - that it’s enough, to have Zayn like this. To be … close.

It’s enough, enough, enough.

(It’s not.)

(It never is.)


End file.
